Turbulence

by Samit Basu

  “I’ll go meet Jai if you two come with me,” Namrata says ten minutes later. She’s sitting with Aman and Uzma at Meg’s square wooden dining table, drinking something fruity and vitamin-enriched in a tall glass. There’s an ebony statue of Aphrodite in the centre of the table, a plaque beneath it reveals that is a prize for Team Togetherness.

  The other Abidis watch the news on TV with Mark and Hanif, occasionally shooting curious glances at the three conspirators, but too polite to interfere. Uzma has announced this is an emergency, and her parents, it is clear, are now seriously worried. Vir’s video is playing on TV, interspersed with shots of a police cordon being formed at each end of the Millennium Bridge, of helicopters hovering over Parliament, of London preparing for the worst. There’s also a picture of Jai, taken at night by a tourist walking by the Thames: Jai is sitting on a ledge high up on the MI5/SIS building by the river, 85 Vauxhall Cross, smoking a cigar. The image is grainy, but he looks like he’s smiling.

  “There’s absolutely no reason for us to go meet Jai,” Uzma says. “Don’t do it if you don’t want to, though I don’t see why you came all this way to back out at the last moment. There’s just an hour to go, Namrata. Make up your mind.”

  “He said he’d destroy London if I didn’t meet him,” Namrata says. “And I had this vision — I told you. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? The three of us, standing in front of St Paul’s Cathedral. The bridge is broken. Jai is dead. There’s a man standing above him — floating, actually. I didn’t recognise him before but now I do. It’s that Vir guy from the video — the one who let Jai into your house. There were other people too — I think I saw that tiger-headed man and the little girl from the stadium, but I’m not sure. The man was dead, and the girl was crying. They must be here with Jai.”

  “No, they’re with us,” Aman says. “Look, this isn’t going to help because it’s all drawn from fiction, but what they always say to people who see the future in books and comics is that they’re seeing one of many possible futures. If you change the conditions, you change the results. I don’t want to see a future where Sher dies. Or even Jai — I’m not sure that he’s beyond redemption, that he deserves to die.”

  “I’m scared of going alone, Aman,” Namrata says. “What if you don’t come and Jai kills me? What if I don’t go and Jai kills everyone?”

  “IT’S ALL OVER!” yells a voice, and they all jump and turn. The Abidis and the exes look back guiltily. Mark has changed the channel to ESPN.

  “Sorry,” he mutters, and lowers the volume.

  “If you’re right and the dreams I have are warnings of events, not unchangeable predictions, then it means that I could have done something to save those people. Kalki’s parents. Kalki. Jai’s parents. Their deaths are my fault,” Namrata says, tears welling up in her eyes again.

  “Oh, stop crying,” Uzma snaps. “The baby’s alive. Nothing’s your fault. What’s wrong, Aman?”

  Aman opens his eyes and shakes his head.

  “I don’t know. Something is,” he says. “Did you have a vision of Jai’s parents’ death, Namrata?”

  “What? Yes,” she says.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I was too scared. I was hiding in the mountains at the time, hoping the bad dreams would just go away.”

  She lowers her head and tears roll down her cheeks. Aman sits; his eyes are closed and he seems to be lost in thought. Uzma looks from one to the other, waiting for something to happen. Across the living room, the Abidis make enquiring gestures. Uzma waves the Team Togetherness award at them and they look at the TV dutifully, ignoring Namrata’s increasingly loud sniffs.

  “Wait a minute,” Aman says, looking up. “When did you get in to London?”

  “This morning,” Namrata replies.

  “Impressive, considering that all flights are cancelled. And why does a British Airways flight from a week ago have your name on it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Namrata says.

  Aman stands up, knocking his chair back, and slams his fist on the table.

  “You weren’t in the mountains,” he says, his voice rising. “You were in London. That’s why your phone was off. That’s why you emailed instead of calling. You were here when the first mob formed outside Jai’s parents’ house. You were here when they died.”

  “Yes, I was,” Namrata whispers.

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to get the story,” she says, her voice barely audible. “I had a vision and I wanted to capture it on tape. Get an exclusive, like always. That’s my job.”

  “But you didn’t get a story. Why not, if you were here?”

  “I got scared, okay? I didn’t want to see Jai again. When the crowd started getting angry, I ran away. He wants to kill me, I know he does.”

  Aman runs a hand through his hair, his eyes wild.

  “Why is it that you and the mob controller are always at the same place at the same time, Namrata?”

  Namrata’s eyes widen in horror.

  “What are you saying?” she squeals. “Have you gone completely mad? Uzma! Talk to him!”

  “You brought Jai here,” Aman says. “And you tricked all of us into coming here to kill him for you. You haven’t had any bloody visions, Namrata. These mobs — they were all you. Right from the start.”

  There’s a sudden movement beside Aman. Uzma raises the Team Togetherness statue. She swings it, hard, and there’s a loud, dull thud as it connects with Aman’s head.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Uzma! What the hell?”

  Mark is the first to his feet, he runs up to Uzma and grabs her. The rest of her family and friends also rush towards the table. Uzma doesn’t struggle in Mark’s firm grip. She stares at the trophy in her hands, too aghast to speak. On the floor, Aman groans and rubs his head.

  “They had a fight,” Namrata says. “Uzma, you really shouldn’t have hit him.”

  Yusuf kneels next to Aman.

  “Maybe we should call an ambulance,” he says.

  “She’s been really angry over the last few days,” Namrata says. “I’ve tried to help her, but…”

  “You did this!” Uzma yells. “You made me do it!”

  “Don’t say anything,” her mother says. “We all saw what happened.”

  “It’s your temper, darling,” Namrata says. “You should really calm down.”

  “Let me go!” Uzma pushes Mark aside. “That’s her power! She drives people into a rage! She makes them attack people!”

  “Uzma, please, just settle down,” her father says.

  “I’ve been really worried about her,” Namrata says. “Do you have any medication? She gets really violent when she’s like this.”

  Uzma lunges at her, but Mark holds her back and wrests the trophy from her grasp. Uzma is pale and shaking with anger as she stares at Namrata.

  “Tell them the truth!” she yells. “Tell them you did it!”

  “I did it,” Namrata says, and clasps her hands to her mouth, her eyes widening in horror. “I did it, she’s not lying, I made her hit Aman. What — what’s happening to me?”

  Aman tries to sit up, but can’t. He rubs his head and watches, amazed, as Namrata steps back, still speaking. It’s as if every word she utters is leaving her mouth against her will.

  “Aman was right. All those angry crowds — they were all me. I can’t see the future at all. Why am I telling you this?”

  “I don’t know. Are you going to attack me again?”

  “Of course not. I don’t want to. I really like you, Uzma. I have from the start. That’s why I didn’t use my power on you at the cricket match. I thought you’d catch me then. Thought you’d all wonder why my cameraman wasn’t affected, but you didn’t.”

  “This is crazy. Why would you do something like this?”

  Namrata regains her composure. A slow, sly smile spreads across her pretty face.

  “Uzma, I really don’t want to tell you,” she
says. “But are you asking me to tell you?”

  “Yes,” Uzma says. “Tell me everything.”

  “I told you in Mumbai. I gave too much away. I told you how I was upset because we were all living in this bubble. Because no one got angry about the things going on around us any more, no one cared about anything even when it was in the news. I was sick of covering stupid fashion shows and awards ceremonies. Maybe that’s why I got this power. I could rustle up a mob, make them really mad about anything I wanted. Mad enough to rip apart anything I asked them to. At first I was just doing it to get bigger stories, promotions, become well known so I got to be the reporter my channel sent to the really important places — but then Jai showed up. I got him mad as well, but he just shrugged it aside. Never lost focus. Didn’t know I was doing it, but he knew who I was. He was watching me, following me. I thought he wanted to kill me.

  “But I had no idea how bad things really were, how much danger I was in. I figured that out the day I met you and Aman. And Jai. I realised that while he was alive, while people like him were alive, people like us could never make the world better, never make a difference — because Jai and his thugs were so much stronger. I had to stop him. I tried holding his parents hostage, hoping he would quit — but that’s not something he does. I didn’t want the Mathurs to die, but I was so scared I lost control of the mob. That’s why I had to bring all of you here. I wanted to get every superhero in the world together, get them to attack Jai. To kill him.”

  “Was that it?” Uzma asks. Her family stands around her, and she’s never seen them so completely dumbstruck before. “You wanted to control all of us, didn’t you?” she says. “You used Aman and me to bring the rest here with your lies about visions, and you wanted to have this whole superpowered gang to use as your attack dogs.”

  “Yes,” Namrata says, and covers her mouth with her hand again. “With all of you, Vir and Aman and the rest, I could get anything I wanted, not just bigger and better news stories. And my powers are growing, you know. I have so much more control over the people in my crowds. Now it’s not just who gets mad at whom — I can control how angry they get now, whether they attack with a plan or in a frenzy, and whether they remember later. My god, I don’t believe you’re making me tell you. And I don’t believe you had all this time and you still haven’t figured it out.”

  Aman struggles to rise. He gets a hand on a chair and pulls himself up on his knees.

  “Uzma,” he croaks, “tell her to —”

  “Too slow,” Namrata says. “Sorry, Mark, I don’t know you, and you’re cute, but —”

  Beside Uzma, Yusuf suddenly yells, enraged, and tackles Mark to the ground. Uzma clenches her fists and concentrates, trying to fight the rage welling up inside her. Her parents, Meg and Hanif also fall on the floor, clawing at Mark, pounding ineffectively at whoever’s nearer him. Mark’s scream of terror is cut off as Uzma leaps at him as well, her face red with uncontrollable fury.

  Aman feels it too, and goes online quickly. A few seconds later, he’s back to normal. He struggles to his feet, to find Namrata seated on the table, dangling her legs, watching calmly as Mark manages to push his way out of the scrum and runs for the door. Yusuf blocks his path and they’re all on him again, tearing at his flesh.

  “You really are immune, aren’t you, Aman?” Namrata says. “Never figured that one out. You and Tia — good thing for me she’s not here, huh?”

  “Stop it,” Aman says.

  “Not much use if you say it, Aman. Now if Uzma had been smart enough to say it — that would have been something. You’ve worked it out now, haven’t you? Say it and I’ll let the Irish boy live.”

  “Everyone has to do what Uzma tells them to,” Aman says.

  “And you lived with her for so long and never knew,” Namrata says dreamily as Mark makes a dash for the open kitchen, and the others scramble after him. “Of course, maybe her powers just grew, like ours did. And what a power, huh? I’ve got her mad, but I’m still obeying her — I can’t stop explaining things, and the last thing I want to do now is talk. You have no idea how much it hurts to keep her angry — I just want good things to happen to her, I’d do anything to make her happy. I love her so much. Everyone does, right? I bet you do whatever she wants.”

  “Let her go,” Aman says. “Stop making her do this. Let them all go.”

  “Can’t, sorry. She could stop me with a single word.”

  Aman advances towards her, but she’s quicker than he is. She keeps the table between them, never losing sight of the fight that rages in the kitchen.

  “Pity I can’t control you,” she says. “Listen closely now. This is your last chance. You know the world would be a better place without the superthugs. Just people like you and me, changing society, leading revolutions, cleaning the world.”

  “Killing people.”

  “I know my power’s horrible, but I didn’t choose it. We can still work this out, Aman. We all go to the bridge, Uzma tells Jai and all the others to fight until they’re all dead. Hell, she could tell them to kill themselves and they’d probably do it. We’d be safer. The world would be safer. Come on!”

  Aman jumps onto the table and lunges at her, but she’s already halfway across the room.

  In the kitchen, the Abidis, Meg and Yusuf stop battering Mark to a pulp and stand and stare at Aman. He’s horrified as their faces go vacant, and then slowly flood with rage. Uzma’s mother picks up a big carving knife. They advance slowly towards him.

  “Got to go now, I have an interview. Nice knowing you,” Namrata says cheerily. She pulls Uzma’s arm, leading her away from the rest. Aman looks at Uzma beseechingly, hoping that the power of love or something similar will break Namrata’s hold on her. But Uzma merely looks dazed as Namrata guides her out through the door.

  As the door shuts, Mark emerges from behind the kitchen counter. His clothes are tattered and bloodstained and one of his eyes is a messy, bloody lump, but he seems unaware of any damage. He joins the others as they rush at Aman.

  Hanif gets there first, his large, expressive eyes shining with fury and pain. Aman knocks him out with the Team Togetherness trophy and feels not one iota of regret. He cannot bring himself to strike Meg, though, and so he pushes her to one side, ducks and rolls, narrowly avoiding Uzma’s mother’s slashing knife, which slices through at least an inch of wood as it strikes the table.

  Yusuf lunges at Aman next, and falls over a chair. Aman sees an opportunity for a well-timed groin kick but pauses, this man might be his brother-in-law if he survives today. Taking advantage of Aman’s hesitation, Uzma’s father hits his back with a chair, WWE style, and Aman screams in pain. As Aman falls, Mark charges with rhino-like ferocity, trips over Aman and cannons into Uzma’s parents and the table. There’s a thundering crash, and they all go down in a heap.

  Aman leaps up and runs across the room, avoiding a flailing Yusuf. But before he can even begin to breathe, Meg kicks his ankle, hard, and slaps his face, hard. Throwing aside centuries of civilised Sen upbringing, Aman grabs her and pushes her at Yusuf, but the force of his charge carries him along, and they all fall in a heap on Uzma’s suitcase.

  A flash of steel. Mrs Abidi’s knife glitters above Aman. She brings it down in a silvery arc, missing his head by a hair’s breadth as he pushes Yusuf and Meg aside. The knife quivers, embedded in the suitcase. Muttering an apology, he kicks her and she falls, twisting her ankle.

  Aman begins to rise to his feet, but then dives aside as Mark throws himself across the living room. He jumps to his feet, his head spinning wildly, and picks up the suitcase, using it as a shield as Uzma’s father, not looking too professorial, lashes out wildly, using a tall iron lampstand as a kendo stick. The suitcase splits open, spilling its contents. A few clothes fall out, and then a black and silver briefcase tumbles to the floor.

  Aman throws the empty suitcase at Uzma’s father, dives, and grabs the briefcase. Ignoring Yusuf and Meg, who appear to be biting his legs, he taps in the c
ombination.

  The armour responds magnificently: it unfolds over his body, plates sliding smoothly over his torn skin and clothes, black metal covering his head an instant, just before Uzma’s father swings the lampstand down in what would have been a skull-splitting blow. Aman doesn’t even feel it. He lifts his legs. The final plates slide into place over his feet, dislodging Yusuf and Meg. Hanif, who has recovered enough to crawl across the floor, picks up the knife and stabs Aman’s foot. The blade slides off the armour with a spark and sticks into the wooden floor. Behind him, Mark roars a challenge.

  The armour takes over. Aman doesn’t have to make the slightest effort as he turns, blocks Mark’s punch with a contemptuous palm, twists hard, cracking Mark’s wrist and then jabs with his other arm, sending him flying into the kitchen counter. Aman’s limbs flow smoothly, guided into a cobra stance. Hanif stumbles towards him and Aman picks him up, neck and hip, and tosses him on his shoulder, head down. Hanif is set up for a neck-snapping pile-driver, but Aman screams a silent No! and the armour pauses mid-slam, and instead lays Hanif out on the floor. Hanif stays down.

  Whether it’s because Namrata has moved out of range or because they’re all simply too tired to continue, the spell breaks. Aman surveys the carnage around him. The flat is completely trashed, and so are its inhabitants. Mr Abidi, the last man standing, drops his lampstand.

  He looks at Aman, his face bewildered, and mutters, “What the hell happened?”

  “I’m really sorry,” Aman says. “I have to go save Uzma now.”

  He steps towards the door, but his armour has no intention of wasting time waiting for a lift. Aman finds himself running towards the balcony. He yells out in alarm, but it’s too late — he smashes through a glass door, over the balcony railing, and is suspended in mid-air for a gut-churning second before he falls and lands, perfectly poised, on the street. The road cracks with the impact. Aman can only watch helplessly and feel his legs pump, his arms swing and his heart race as he starts running as fast as a speeding car towards the River Thames.